


Miss Me?

by longliv



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-21 11:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6049536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longliv/pseuds/longliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian visits Mickey in jail to tell him that he's with someone new. It's safe to say, Mickey doesn't handle the news very well. Everything spirals from there, and someone ends up in the hospital, fighting for their life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mickey now spent way too much time with old toothbrushes, combs and screwdrivers.  
If he wasn't sticking a manually sharpened weapon in some mick's eye, then he usually just twirled it around in his hands and watched the wall like it was playing a fuckin' feature film  
He thought about Ian a lot. Too much, probably. But what other choice did he have? Son of a bitch was in his blood, all over him like a growing virus.  
Ian hadn't been back to visit him since that time with Svetlana and the kid. He remembered the way Ian had said, “Svetlana paid me to come,” and tried not to remember the way he almost wished Ian had been holding one of these screwdrivers, because that stabbing would probably have hurt less.  
He worried, mostly. Of course, he had a lot to worry about in the joint, including protecting himself from the friends of all the people he'd already been paid to take care of. The upside was that Terry, Mickey's useless fuckhead of a father, was transferred to a different, higher-security prison before Mickey had arrived at this one. Also, because of his, um, job, he'd made a few allies, people he'd helped.  
He had friends in the kitchen who made sure he got the good stuff, the top of the pile, not the bottom. He ate alone mostly, and worked on cars for part of the day in the auto shop—one of the other guys who worked there gave pen-ink tattoos, and Mickey had gotten a couple, including Ian's (misspelled) name. His roommate, whose name was apparently Sal, if Mickey'd interpreted the grunts right, was mostly silent and didn't bug him. He had guards on the payroll of someone other than the state, who'd look away when Mickey carried out his business.  
All things considered, it could be worse.  
He'd be out in fifteen years, eight with overcrowding.  
And Ian said he'd wait. It was a fuckin lie and they both knew it, but he said he'd wait. And, despite everything, despite looking like a cracking clay statue, despite breaking up with him and refusing to come see him, Mickey knew how Ian felt. They loved each other, in a complete full-body way, in a way that Mickey didn't even believe could exist until some gangly red-head with a pension for fucking up stumbled his way into his life.  
So, even if he wouldn't wait, he wouldn't move on. They'd end up together, there was no doubt in Mickey's mind. They belong together, they just do.  
Today, Mickey lays on his bunk. Svet hasn't visited in a couple weeks, and he'd carried out his last job. It sometimes takes her a while to get him a new one.  
So you can imagine the surprise when his cell door creaked open, and the gruff voice of one of the guards cut through the silence. “Milkovich,” the guy barked, and Mickey thought he sounded a lot like a fucking rottweiler. “You've got a visitor.”  
Eyebrows raising, he climbed off of his bunk and began exiting. There were only two guards, one behind him and one in front. Mickey was always on lookout for exits and weaknesses in the prison, just in case he had to escape one day—he'd be the world's worst liar if he ever tried to tell you he hadn't considered doing it sooner rather than later.  
They weren't leading him to the phones, this time. Svetlana didn't usually like to come to visiting center, where the prisoner could actually (briefly) touch their guests, because she wanted to keep all the creeps away from Yvgenny. So either she'd left the rugrat at home, or it was someone else.  
The first guard, the one who'd called his name, opened the door, and Mickey's heart dropped into his guts, a bowling ball on strings.  
He saw the hair first, the flaming red that he'd spent hours running his fingers through. He was sitting quite still, all of his jaw muscles visible through his pale skin. He really did look like a statue, like one of those old paintings of angels in the history books Mickey had never bothered to read. Fuckin alien looking, Mickey remembered calling Ian once. The boy was too beautiful to be of this world.  
How could anyone notice other people with Ian around?  
Bastard.  
One of the guards slightly shoved Mickey forward, forcing him to realize he hadn't moved yet. He walked over slowly, like somehow delaying their meeting would prolong their time together. Finally, Ian looked up, and, for a second, Mickey saw light flicker behind his eyes but, like a lighter in a windstorm, it was out before he could blink.  
Mickey tried not to remember how Ian's face used to light up like a streetlight, the slanted smile cracking his face in two whenever Mickey walked in a room.  
Ian stood up, and Mickey took this as all the permission he needed, and quickly wrapped his arms around Ian's neck, pulling him close. Immediately, Mickey knew it was a mistake; not only does Ian freeze, his familiar muscles becoming hard and still under Mickey's touch, but Mick can't help but think that he smells the same. He smelled like Ian, like home. It's almost too easy to forget where they are, to forget that Ian doesn't hug him back.  
The inmates are permitted up to a ten-second hug at the beginning of the visit. Mickey pulled back after five.  
They're also permitted a kiss.  
Mickey didn't try it.  
They sat down at opposite sides of the table, and Ian kept his hands clasped in front of him. It's painfully like the last visit; Ian avoids making eye contact.  
“You look . . .” Mickey began, but decides to let Ian fill in the blanks. It's the first thing he said to him last time, too: You look good. “Decide to take your meds after all?”  
Ian's nostrils flared, the veins in his arms sticking out just a little more. “You sound like fucking Fiona,” he grumbled.  
“Sorry,” Mickey responded, knowing it wasn't a compliment. “Svetlana pay you to come see me again?”  
He didn't answer for a moment. “Nah,” he said finally, sitting back in the chair, finally looking at Mickey. “I'm here on my own, this time.”  
Mickey couldn't keep the dopey smile off his face. His adoration for Ian was borderline humiliating, but he couldn't shake it or bring himself to hide it, not anymore.  
“So you're alright?” Mickey asked. “With . . . everything?”  
Ian's nostrils didn't flare this time, but the anger was still there.  
“Sorry,” Mickey said again, although this time he almost didn't know why. “I know you don't like me checking up on you.”  
“It's not your job to take care of me, Mickey,” he growled, leaning forward a bit. There's anger, yes, but it's wet; behind the clenched teeth and white knuckles, he's holding back tears, and it rips at Mickey's chest. “It never was.” His tone cools off.  
“I know it's not my job,” Mickey hissed back, leaning forward further, hands now splayed on the table. “It doesn't mean I don't stop worrying about you. Just because I'm in here. Just because we're. . .” he didn't know what to call it. He couldn't say “broken up”. He couldn't. “It doesn't mean I don't think about you.”  
“I know,” Ian said quietly, “and I really wish you would stop.” And it was a lie. Because it had to be.  
He said it like Mickey had some kind of fucking choice. Like he could wake up tomorrow and get over Ian, like it wouldn't be easier to gnaw off his own arm, like it wouldn't be simpler to reach inside his own fucking ribcage and hold up his dead heart. Like he could erase Ian from his mind, like he wasn't the only fucking thing on it.  
“You think if I could figure out how to stop thinking about you, I wouldn't have already done that by now?” Again, Ian looked away, this time at the floor. “This wasn't the plan you know, Ian, loving you this fucking much wasn't the plan. I didn't ask for a bat-shit crazy redhead to speed through my life like a fucking tornado.” Ian remains silent.  
Sighing, Mickey continues, “Look, man, I'm sorry.” He reaches his hand out to wrap it around Ian's clenched fist but doesn't quite get there before a guard barks out “No touching!” He pulls back. “I love you, okay, you dumb fucker? That's not changing. And when I get out—”  
“I'm with someone.”  
Ice ran through his veins like it was shot into him with a syringe. A bitterness like sour milk filled his mouth, threatened to spill through his teeth.  
He hadn't expected Ian to be celibate, that wasn't him. He'd expected this. He was ready for it.  
“What do you mean?” he asked slowly. “It's not . . .” his voice was so close to cracking. He took a deep breath. “It's not serious?”  
“It is.” Ian's hands were off the table, and he seemed to be scooting further and further back. “He loves me. He asked me to move in with him.”  
Mickey suddenly wishes he had his screwdriver now, so that he could hand it to Ian. Let him finish the job.  
“And do you . . .” Mickey clears his throat. “Do you love him?”  
He's not sure why he asks it. Maybe he's just a glutton for punishment. More probably, he's hoping Ian will deny loving the other man, tell him Mickey's the only one for him.  
He doesn't.  
“Yes.”  
Mickey closes his eyes, points his head to side to hide his expression from Ian. It doesn't do much, though; a blind man would be able to see how Ian's completely annihilating him.  
“What's his name?” Mickey asks, and has to repeat himself, because he didn't actually ask the first time. His mouth wouldn't form the words.  
Ian looks suspicious, like maybe he shouldn't give away that information (smart man), but eventually says, “Caleb.” Then, after a beat, “I'm training to become a firefighter. He's one, too.”  
Mickey was trying to picture Ian in uniform, but kept getting distracted by the words "Caleb the firefighter."  
Then, embarrassingly, pathetically, Mickey whispered, “You said you'd wait.” His voice broke halfway through and it was all his strength to not start fucking crying in a room full of prisoners.  
Ian doesn't point out that it was a lie, that he only said it after Mickey told him to lie, that he had broken up with him before Mickey had even got arrested. He just says, “I know.” He takes a deep breath. “I just didn't want you to hear it from someone else.”  
Like anyone else would risk giving him that news.  
Ian stayed for a few more minutes. Maybe five, maybe twenty. Mickey honestly couldn't tell you when he left, if they hugged before he left (though he was almost sure they didn't), or if they had even said goodbye.  
On the way back to the cell, all he could think was “Caleb the firefighter.”  
Lying down in his bed, fiddling with his shank: Caleb the firefighter.  
The next meal, staring blankly at his tray of mush: Caleb the firefighter.  
Caleb the fucking firefighter.  
It was time to call Iggy.


	2. Snickerdoodles

Ian sat outside on the pavement, a burning cigarette dangling between his lips, his hands slumped in between his spread-open legs. He was outside of Caleb's apartment—our apartment, he tried to correct himself—when he was struck by a sudden wave of sadness. Like all of his muscles were suddenly drained, like the world was color one second, black and white the next.   
He'd been on and off like this since his visit with Mickey.  
That was about a week ago, but he'd been thinking about it ever since. He was so close to actually becoming a firefighter, to moving in with Caleb, to moving on with his life. And yet he couldn't focus on any of that, on anything except the look on Mickey's face when he said he loved someone else.  
Even with as much shit as they'd been through, as much as they'd put each other through, Ian never wanted to hurt Mickey like that. At the time, he wasn't even sure if he could live through it.  
That night, Caleb had tried to get something going, but Ian had brushed it off. When he went to bed, he was a log; he felt the depression coming on and tried to hide it. All he kept picturing was Caleb walking in on Ian not being able to get out of bed, on Ian doing something reckless; in his mind, it always ended with Caleb leaving. He didn't think he would be able to handle it, seeing Ian like that; who could?   
Mickey, the one who'd been with him through everything, who seemed like he'd love him no matter what, couldn't even stand by him through it. He did, at first. He tried, so long as Ian took his medication, so long as his crazy was handled.   
But as Caleb tried to joke with Ian, rouse him, all he could hear was the last conversation he and Mickey had had before Mick got arrested:  
“I hate the meds, you gonna make me take 'em?”   
“You get fuckin nuts when you don't.”  
“You gonna wanna be with me, even if I don't?”  
Mickey hadn't said anything. That silence echoed around in Ian's head for months. It's why he broke up with him, moments later. It's why he could hardly see him now.  
Ian had loved Mickey so much. So much that he looked past all the fights, the name calling, the red flags that whispered “this isn't healthy.” He loved him too much to care. And Mickey loved him; but not enough. Never enough.  
It was hard for Ian to believe he was truly lovable, as he is, as he really is. Nobody has the time to love someone who's crazy.  
So Ian tries to hide it, from Caleb, like he couldn't hide it from Mickey.  
Some days are harder than others, like today.  
He'd picked a fight with Caleb, about twenty minutes ago. Ian had been moving sluggishly, all of his limbs trapped in wet concrete. He wasn't down enough to not get out of bed, he had just enough energy to wake up and consider slashing his wrists.  
It's not serious, he assured himself, I wouldn't really do it. It's like a joke—I wouldn't really do it.  
But, some days, he wasn't sure.  
He couldn't handle it when Caleb started trying to talk to him, to have a real conversation, about joining the team, his future, their future. A moment longer and Caleb would've realized Ian wasn't smiling, that he couldn't, that he was a second away from snapping like twig.   
So he diverted any possible attention away from his misery and yelled, “Jesus, will you shut the fuck up for two seconds?!”  
He and Caleb didn't talk to each other like that, ever. It was something they'd decided on; they were meant to be one of those couples who communicated, who didn't yell, but talked instead. But Ian missed yelling; he hates talking, at least in great length about uncomfortable topics.  
Caleb had recoiled, hurt flashing across his face. “What the hell, Ian?” he asked quietly.  
What Caleb meant was “What's wrong? Did I do something?”  
What Ian heard was “What the hell is wrong with you, Ian?”  
I'm crazy! Ian wanted to scream. I'm fucking crazy, okay? Leave me the fuck alone!  
Instead, he'd said, “Just leave me the fuck alone.” And stormed out.  
And now he was on the curb.  
He wondered if he had pushed Caleb a little too far away, if he was too harsh. He just couldn't bring himself to care, not then.   
He was starting to spiral. He needed to snap out of it.  
“Fuck,” he whispered, and slowly climbed to his feet, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and squashing the butt into the pavement with his heel.  
He needed a drink.  
He didn't have a car, not yet. The plan was to get one once he became a firefighter, once he had money. Caleb had a car. It was bright yellow and small; Ian hated it.  
Once he stood up, he briefly saw the hood of a dark green car, one that looked insanely familiar. He knew what car . . . it was gone before he could identify it.  
He decided to just start walking. He could go to the L, head home, see Fiona and the others. He didn't really have the energy for it, not now. So he kept going.

 

Ian began pacing outside of the fire house, a tray of cookies in his hands. Things were strained with him and Caleb; they hadn't seen each other since Ian had stormed out the other day. He'd been crashing back at his old house. They'd talked once; Caleb had texted him a few times, and Ian called him.  
“Ian?” Caleb had said, and Ian couldn't help but remember similar conversations with Mickey. “Where are you?”  
“My place,” he responded. “Sorry, about before. Just been a stressful few days, I guess.”  
“I guess,” Caleb had muttered. “You coming back?”  
“Yeah,” Ian said, and Caleb sighed in relief. “Just wanted some time with my family. Maybe tomorrow?”  
“Sure thing, man,” he sounded like he was smiling. “Love you.”  
“You too.” It was weird to say.  
They hung up at the same time.  
Ian hadn't come back the next day. Or the next. He got wrapped up in the family drama; Debbie's baby was sick so Ian had to help with that, Fiona was having problems with her boyfriend, Carl was on the run from some gang-bangers, and Frank was passed out in a puddle on the kitchen floor.   
He'd been gone for four days.  
Caleb called, texted, left voice messages, even e-mailed trying to get a hold of him.  
“It's me, again,” one of the voicemails said. Caleb sounded extremely annoyed; Ian couldn't blame him. “Where the hell are you, Ian? All your stuff's here. I miss you.” Pause. “Listen, I know how crazy your family can get. You might be really busy. But don't blow off your boyfriend, okay? I'm on your side. Anyway, call me back.”  
Ian didn't.  
Which is why he's outside of the firehouse now, holding a plate of snicker-doodles.  
Before Ian can enter, just as he's getting ready to, the door bursts open and four firemen stream out, laughing and playfully shoving each other. He recognizes a couple of them; and then his eyes fall on the last one out, and he smiles.  
Caleb looks over, and the smile drips from his face. All the other firemen stop laughing, and glance between the two of the warily.  
“Hey,” Ian said tentatively.   
“Hi,” Caleb said slowly. The other firemen slowly drifted off, looking awkward. “Ian, was it?”  
“Ha ha,” Ian said dryly. “Cute.”   
Caleb did not look amused.  
“Here.” Ian extended the cookies. “I made these for you. Well, Debbie made them, mostly, but I helped.”   
Caleb didn't take them. In fact, he turned the other way and started walking.  
“Caleb!” Ian called, hurrying to keep up with him. “You're pissed,” he said between breaths, a few steps behind his boyfriend. “I get that.”  
Caleb whirled around, with an expression that could melt steel. “I left pissed behind three days ago, Ian! You blow up at me for no apparent reason, then don't answer any of my phone calls, my texts. I'm pretty beyond pissed, okay? I was this fucking close to tossing all your shit in the nearest dumpster.”  
Ian nods stonily. He knows what's coming. “Sorry,” he said lamely. “Things get crazy . . .”  
“Look,” Caleb sighed, “I know how crazy your family is, I get it. But that doesn't mean you can just go AWOL on me. I need you to be stable, to be here.”   
I'm not stable, Ian thought. He was as far from stable as you could get, really.  
“Sorry,” Ian said again.   
Caleb crossed his arms, and Ian straightened his shoulders, standing a little taller. He knew what came next; Caleb was going to break up with him.   
He focused on making his face as neutral as possible, on preparing himself for the blow.  
“I love you, Ian. But you can't pick and choose when you want a partner.” Here it comes, Ian thought. “I'm here,” he breathed, and Ian's eyebrows shot up in shock. “I'm here, and I love you, so please don't push me away.”  
In two strides, Ian was in front of him, pulling him into a kiss. He wrapped his arms around his neck, and felt weirdly choked up. The kiss was nice, tender; it wasn't the all-consuming fire that his kisses with Mickey were. It was different, but it wasn't worse.  
There was a small voice in the back of his head that whispered This is only because he doesn't know. He doesn't know how crazy you are. He wouldn't love you, then.  
Ian pulls back first. He puts the cookies in Caleb's hands. “I won't disappear again,” he promises. Then, realizing it was a promise he couldn't actually keep, if history was any indicator of future behavior, he amended, “Or at least, I'll try not to. I'll return your calls if I do.”  
Caleb laughed, a small huff of air, and put his forehead against Ian's. “You gotta make things difficult, don't you, Army?”  
Ian recoiled at the mention of Mickey's old nickname for him. Caleb had called him it before, when Ian told him the story of running away to join the army (he'd left out all of the gory details). It sounded wrong coming from him, and it caused a little tear to open in Ian's chest.  
When he pulled back, his eyes fell to a line of cars on the other side of the street, and his breathing stopped for a moment.   
There it was again. The green car.  
This time, he knew why he knew it. IT was the same one he'd tried to drive to Miami, with a screaming baby in the backseat. It was the same one Mickey had had to pay to get our of impound when he got arrested, the same one Ian used to drive to pick up Mickey after the moving truck jobs.   
It was the Milkovich car. And someone was inside it.  
“What the fuck?” Ian hissed, and started walking toward the car, not bothering to look and see if any other cars were in the road.   
“What?” he heard Caleb ask from behind him.  
Whoever was in the car—Iggy, it looked like—caught sight of Ian when he was halfway to the car. The engine started and the car skidded to life, quickly spinning away and driving in the opposite direction of Ian.  
What the hell had Iggy been doing here? Was he spying on him? Was he spying on Caleb?  
Whatever the reason, somebody owed him an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you might have been able to tell, things are going to get complicated for Ian. He can't hide his mental illness forever, eventually it'll catch up to him. Mickey's coming soon. Stay tuned! :)


End file.
